


Concession

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avatars cannot live on bread alone, Bad Puns, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Fear Entity Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Flirting, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Or bread at all, So we make our cake and eat it too, That's how that expression goes right?, sex positive asexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26325622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “This isn’t a compromise,” Martin announces during the inaugural flip of theVacanciessign, “so much as a concession.”And Jon laughs, because he enjoys good wordplay.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 29
Kudos: 128





	Concession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asmilewaiting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmilewaiting/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Nope. 
> 
> Author’s Note: So apparently, [Martin's Motel is a place that exists](https://images.app.goo.gl/7Uk9wjuHjKzuDnhf7). Inspiring, isn’t it? Stronghold of the Lonely, indeed. 
> 
> Warnings: Avatars bein’ Avatars. Also bad puns. Dry humping. No beta.

\---

Concession

\---

“This isn’t a compromise,” Martin announces during the inaugural flip of the _Vacancies_ sign, “so much as a concession.”

Poised behind their brand-new lobby desk, Jon laughs: a warm exclamation in the cold lobby. “You’ve such a way with words, love.” 

“It’s the poet in me.”

“Oh? Jealous,” Jon hums, lashes long and smile longer. “I’d like a poet in _me_.”

Being tall, and broad, and sturdy, and ominous, Martin looks like a lighthouse when he blushes, the glow on his cheeks guiding others closer even as it warns them away. In the brontide gloom of twilight, his fingers on Jon’s cheek are as frosty as the sea; his kiss, as evanescent as fog.

“I think that can be arranged.”

-

“ _I demand to speak to the manager!_ ” crackles the voice of the Guest, the sharp edges of her fury made dull by static. There should not be any static. Not over the hotel’s internal phone system. And technically, there isn’t. But Jon had been the one to answer the call. “ _Something is_ wrong _with this place!_ ”

Jon makes a sound. It is comforting in the same way a purr can be. Except cats do not only purr when trying to comfort. They do not only purr when contented. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells the Guest— _Vera Thompson, age 38, recent divorcee, in town to attend her little sister’s funeral, and_ no, none of this was included in the information Martin collected at check-in— “the manager is on break right now.” 

“ _I don’t give a damn about his fucking_ break schedule, _my walk-in closet just— it just— when I opened the door—! I just need to tell him right now!_ ” 

“I’m afraid that is simply impossible,” Jon purrs again, silky and smooth and soft and as smothering as a security blanket. “But why don’t you tell _me_ what happened? I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

-

“Are you quite all right, sir?”

“Oh my— oh, thank _God_ ,” the Guest— _Mithran Agate_ , Jon Knows, _age 65, widower, estranged from his adult daughters, recently separated from the twenty-year-old whose affections he chose over the respect of his children_ — sobs, forcibly peeling his rictus fingers from his cheeks. He has more bags under his eyes than he does in his room or the boot of his car. “I thought— I’ve been wandering this place for… for, Christ, it feels like it’s been weeks, and there’s been…! I’ve seen no one, and I thought I was— I thought—!” 

“‘No one?’” Jon echoes, features contorted by bemusement. Or is that _amusement_? No, no, of course not, that would be unprofessional. That would be _cruel_. “Sir, the hotel has been fully staffed since your arrival. Which, I hesitate to mention, was a mere quarter-hour ago. We would hardly have had a chance to leave, even if we wanted to.”

“Wh— what?” It is difficult to tell if the Guest is shaking his head, or just shaking. There are scales of shaved skin visible beneath the trim of his nails. “That can’t— no. There… there must be some mistake, that _can’t_ be—!”

“I assure you—”

“ _No!_ ” 

“Sir,” Jon soothes, stepping close to lay a hand on the Guest’s trembling shoulder, “please. _Calm down_. Yes, good, there we go. Now— I’m certain we can solve whatever mystery you’ve found yourself a part of, but it will depend on you keeping a level head. Fortunately, my partner makes quite the soothing pot of tea. Why don’t we have him fix you a cup, and you can tell us what happened?”

-

The knock on the door resonates in the way all empty things do. But the room is not empty.

“Excuse me,” Jon calls, “but check-out was an hour ago. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.” 

“ _I’m not going anywhere_ ,” the Guest— _Taylor Nakamura, age 19, friendless, dragged first out of the closet, then out of their home_ — counters, the words reedy with terror. Jon suspects, rather than Knows, that the muffled quality of their voice is the fault of the eiderdown. The Guest is hiding. Poorly. “ _I’m not coming out of this God-forsaken room._ ” 

Jon considers this, knuckles resting lightly on the door. “If you’d like to purchase another night’s stay—”

“ _I’ve already called the cops!_ ” the Guest shrieks, hysteria adding cracks to the ice-thin surface of their remaining lucidity. “ _They’re— they’re gonna be here in a minute, and they told me not to move, and I refuse to say anything else to you or that creepy bastard who owns this place!_ ” 

“Indeed?” It’s just as well that the hallway is empty; its fluorescents are warped uncannily by Jon’s eyes. Beneath half-hooded lids, hazel irises burn a cosmic, iridescent green— ignited by the tapetum lucidum layer he has long-since grown behind his retinas. All of his retinas. “Well, before they arrive… might you tell me what my partner and I have done to merit police involvement?”

-

“Did you enjoy your stay?” Martin asks, pleasant, as he returns to the Guest his swiped credit card. Ripping curlicued paper free from the printer makes him think of tearing tongues from smug mouths, and he beams as he offers the receipt with a custom hotel pen. “You seem calmer than you did at check-in, anyway.”

The Guest— Martin doesn’t remember his name right now, and can’t be bothered to glance down and read it— nods, albeit dismissively. “Yeah, it was… all right. I mean. My nightmares got wor— never mind. But getting away, was. Nice. I guess. But…” 

“But?”

“Well. If you don’t mind a bit of constructive criticism, maybe you ought to consider sprucing up the décor?” The Guest grimaces in that judgmental way that people do. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather endure stock photos of highland cows than of happy white families, but. It was still kind of tacky.”

Martin’s grin widens until it includes his molars. They glisten in the dark depths of his mouth, damp and spume-white. “Yeah, fair enough,” he chuckles, holding out a palm for the pen and signed receipt. “Jon and I probably didn’t budget as much as we should have for decoration. Function over fashion, that was our philosophy. But we’re actually in the middle of a bit of remodeling, so— hmm.” 

A pause, marked by the thoughtful expression that overtakes Martin’s face. Slipping the pen behind his ear, he rounds the front desk and gestures to a side door. It looks like any other door in the hotel, except for the antiquated keyhole in its knob. “Actually,” Martin says as he fishes out a skeleton key, “before you go, maybe I could get your opinion? This room here is… well, it’s always vacant, so I’ve been using it to try out new prints and paint and wallpaper and stuff. It’s definitely more my ‘hashtag-aesthetic,’ as the kids would say! Could you take a look and let me know what you think? Having an outside party’s thoughts on it would definitely help me convince Jon to touch up the rest of the joint. The customer is always right, after all.”

The room is literal steps from the exit; the Guest would have to pass it to leave, anyway. Martin watches that realization work its way through the gears in the Guest’s brain, stalling his other thought processes and visibly annoying him. 

As if oblivious to this, Martin smiles. He smiles as he unlocks the door. He smiles as he opens it. He smiles as he asks, “Is this better?” and physically shoves the Guest over the threshold of sanity. Into the eldritch nothingness beyond. 

“—!” The Guest’s scream is initially more instinct than terror, though this changes along with its pitch; soon it is as shrill as a boatswain's call, in addition to being as blessedly distant. Muted. 

All the while, the Guest does not stop plunging forward. He has not stopped falling. 

He might never stop falling.

But he probably will. Martin’s manifestation of the Lonely tends to incorporate rock bottoms; the Guest will get there eventually, even if he has to sink through yards and miles and years of foam-pale fathoms to hit it. 

In any event, the descent shall be as slow as it is tortuous, and Martin is regrettably busy today; it goes without saying that he would rather give what little time he will have for pleasure to Jon. 

With thoughts of a cuddle and a round or two of Scrabble to motivate him, he locks up quick, returning the key to his pocket and his mind to the tedium of clerical tasks. The faster he can get this done, the sooner he can seek vengeance on Jon for last week’s “zax” bullshit. 

“Because that is _not_ a word. I don’t care what the Eye or Scrabble’s official rule book might say…” Martin mutters, tucking himself behind the desk once more. “ _Zax_. Honestly.” 

Onto the post-it stuck beside his laptop, Martin spares one last moment to jot: _poem on the myriad of ways a person can drown; i.e. financial debt, ocean. Salt in tears?_ with the pen he plucks from behind his ear. 

After that, it’s back to his Excel sheets.

-

“I keep expecting our Yelp reviews to tank,” Martin comments while scrolling through his phone, “but then I remember: _oh wait, Yelp is a Web-site._ ”

Jon, curled serenely atop his sprawled boyfriend, makes a noise at this: one that is mirthful, and affectionate, and pleased at the same time. Waves of loose, silver-streaked hair cascade over the crest of Martin’s shoulder, his chest, redolent of the waterfall that sailors once believed marked the world’s edge.

 _Here there be monsters_ , and all that. 

“Oh… tangentially, there have been seven deaths at the local hospital today,” Jon murmurs, drawing an idle spiral over Martin’s collarbone. “Three relatives of the bereaved are already making plans to visit from other counties. We should invite Helen over again. And maybe Daisy.” 

All of Jon’s eyes are agleam in the ichorous sunset, reflecting and refracting what light seeps through the window slats. They shimmer with illusionary phosphorescence. 

Martin snorts, dropping his phone in favor of Jon’s hand. 

“Tired of the taste of the Lonely, are you?” he teases, nipping at the base of Jon’s wrist. That he does not see blood means nothing. The burst of copper on his tongue is what’s important. 

Jon squirms, the fluttering of his lashes delightfully asynchronous. “Never. But variety is important in a healthy diet.”

“Exactly. That’s why I bought Earl Gray _and_ Darjeeling this week.”

“Ha. Touché.” Tickled and keen to return the favor, Jon leans up to kiss Martin’s temple. His lips linger, sweet and dragging; they traverse the terrain of Martin’s cheek before journeying to his mouth. Like humans of old, he follows constellatory patterns, tracing the freckles on his boyfriend’s chin, then his throat, then his— “In that case, fuck variety.” 

“Mmm… No, ta. I’m exclusive with my boyfriend.”

“Is that so?” With a sensuous smirk and a single, languid roll, Jon adjusts his body atop Martin’s: tightening his fists on Martin’s forearms and parting his legs to straddle Martin’s lap. “I hope he takes full advantage of that.”

“I assure you, I have been _thoroughly_ ‘touched by the Eye.’”

“Not thoroughly enough,” Jon argues, his voice in Martin’s ear carved into the shape of a leer. “ _Ceaseless Watcher_ , they’ll soon be saying, _turn your gaze upon this wrecked thing_ …”

“Y-yeah…?” 

The next roll of Jon’s hips is as indulgent as the first. As the next. And the next. And the next and the next and the next, even as the breath they do not need grows choppy, and shallow, and wanton, and _desperate_.

-

The sign in the window reads _No Vacancies_ for the rest of the night.

\---


End file.
